


Breathing While You Drown

by violentdarlings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bellatrix is fifteen, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Gen, Naked Female Clothed Male, Nudity, Power Play, pre first war, taking your clothes off to make a point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 02:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13203411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Teenage Bellatrix Black meets the Dark Lord for the first time.She's not yet a sadist. He's not yet completely Voldemort.Neither quite know what to make of the other.





	Breathing While You Drown

“I’ve been told,” he says, his voice cold and trickling down her spine like ice water, “that you are something of a prodigy, Miss Black.”

The rules run through her mind on repeat; do not look at the Dark Lord, unless he gives you permission. Do not rise from your knees, unless he bids you do so. Do not fail us, child. Bellatrix stares at the stone floor, in the dungeon of the Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord’s unofficial headquarters, and does not move.

There is a soft chuckle, an unexpectedly human sound, and she is aware it is because he can hear her thoughts, can hear the litany of rules her parents had impressed upon her, and finds it amusing. “Your parents imagine they know my desires,” the voice continues, silky and dangerous. The slick coldness of his voice runs down her skin and pools wetness between her thighs. “They have offered to me … you.” He makes _you_ sound like a disease. “Which presents something of a conundrum. I have no use for a bed slave, however pure her blood may be. I have been assured you are well trained in the Dark Arts, for all you are only fifteen. But I have many servants. I have no use for a woman.”

Bella does not look up. Bella does not move. Bella thinks _, I expected more from the greatest wizard to ever live than blind misogyny_ , and knows he can perceive every word of it.

A low, pleased hiss. “Interesting.” Bella can see no more of him that polished black shoes and robe hems, circling her in the peripherals of her vision. There is a soft, barely perceptible word. “ _Imperio_.”

_Look at me._ The thought burrows into Bella’s head like a worm creeping into the hole of her ear. _Look at me._

_I will not,_ she replies stubbornly, and keeps her head down, her eyes lowered.

The urge comes again, far stronger, infinitely more insistent. _Look up, Bellatrix Black. Sate your curiosity. Look at last upon your Lord._

Bella smiles. _No,_ she says, and closes her eyes, escapes to the place in her head that has been resisting the Imperious Curse since she was six.

There is no reprieve. One moment the impulse is simply gone, and the next excruciating pain is licking at every nerve, every fibre of her body. A non-verbal Cruciatus, Bella thinks dimly, and locks her knees to stay upright. The Dark Lord is so much stronger than her own father; his curse is like being devoured, being mutilated, burning alive.

Bella does not scream. She does not fall. She does not break, and her cunt is still slick between her legs.

Bella waits.

“Hmm,” the Dark Lord says, and Bella nearly faints when the pain suddenly ceases. “Avada Kedavra.”

He says it slowly enough of Bella to perceive his words as he speaks them. Still, there is nothing for her to do but wait for death, unflinching and unafraid, but death does not come. He has sent the curse ricocheting harmlessly over her shoulder, to blow a hole in one of the Malfoy’s absurd and ugly tapestries.

The Three Unforgivables. What else could there possibly be, after this?

The silence seems to stretch on forever. Bella focusses on the ache in her knees, without cushioning on the stone, in the lingering ache of the Cruciatus in her muscles, in counting each crack in the dark stone.

“Very well,” the Dark Lord says at last; Bella almost looks up in surprise, but restrains herself at the last minute. “You have endured the tests I put to my male servants. For that you may consider yourself commended. Yet you have failed to convince me as to the need for a female servant in my ranks. You may speak, and you may raise your eyes.”

Bella looks up.

He is both everything and nothing she had expected. Dark robes, swirling around a frame almost too gaunt to be real. His face had been handsome once, but the flesh has drawn tight over his bones, his cheekbones seeming sharp enough to cut with, his eyes a shade caught between dark brown and a fey, reddish light.

He is terrifying. He is the most divinely awe-inspiring creature Bellatrix has ever seen. She’s so wet she’s dripping, dripping down her thighs – he must be able to smell it, her Lord, smell the cunt-slick she’s pouring out just by being in his presence.

He is waiting for her to speak.

Bella swallows gathers moisture into the desert of her throat. “Men do not notice women,” she tells him. She does not hesitate. She knows he wold see it as a weakness. “Men see a woman and think she can perceive nothing more than the sewing in her lap or the book in her hand. Men underestimate women. You could use a woman like me.”

A dark, low laugh. “You are no woman, Bellatrix Black,” he says. She longs to know more, _more_ , whether his white hands are as pale all the way up his arms, whether he is cold all the way through. She lusts for him like a hole in the heart. “You are a child, no more than fifteen years on this earth. Such wiles are beyond you.”

Bella throws off her robe, unfastens the simple ties of her dress. She had come prepared for this, had worn her simplest clothes. Her dress pools around her knees; her the high, full swell of her breasts bud hard immediately in the cold air, gooseflesh running over her skin.

She can never be sure, but she thinks she hears the faintest gasp. Like she has managed to shock the Dark Lord, like the sight of her, bare and milk-pale, the dark glory of her hair cascading around her shoulders and thickening between her legs, on her knees before him, is an eventuality he had not foreseen.

Like the thought of her nude stirs him, in the way a man hardens for a beautiful woman.

She could live off of that thought alone for _years_.

Bella rises up on her knees, to better show him the dark thatch between her thighs, the curls only recently grown in this past summer. “Am I woman enough for you, my Lord?” she asks. “Low-hanging fruit is no temptation at all, but the forbidden, the divine…” She smiles. “What lies between a woman’s thighs is more powerful than even the Killing Curse. I could pry the secrets from your enemies with little more than the promise of my cunt.” His eyes widen, just a fraction. Bella wonders, with a tinge of hysteria, if it’s the first time the Dark Lord, terror of the Mudblood community, has heard the word cunt.

“Polyjuice Potion,” he says at last, but it has the air of a final protest. “My men can become women as easily as a handful of hairs and a month’s brew.”

Throwing caution to the wind, Bella rises to her feet, cocks a hip to the side, and tenses her chest to bring her breasts up as firm as possible. The Dark Lord doesn’t seem to know where to look. “But can they do this?” she asks. “Can they make a man spill every secret he has ever known, all for the promise of spending his seed in me? I am yours, if you will have me. I will destroy your enemies with the strength of my wand and with the devastation of flesh, and every moment of deceiving them I will think of nothing but your face and the glory of your cause.”

There is silence again, but Bella does not fear it, not when the Dark Lord, _Voldemort_ , can barely tear his eyes away from the swell of her curves, the languor of her frame. He extends his hand, beckons his fingers for her to rise. Bellatrix understands. She is not to touch.

“ _Our_ cause, Miss Black,” he corrects her, and Bella, bare and cold and shivering in the dungeon air, straightening up to her full height, is transported, imbued with glory beyond imagining.

Their cause. _Theirs_.

She is the Dark Lord’s now.


End file.
